


"Broadcloth Without"

by farad



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra, Chris, fashion.  But yeah, always so much more nuance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Broadcloth Without"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randi2204](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/gifts).



> For Randi, a much belated happy birthday. 
> 
> Thanks to the awesome Jojo for the encouragement and beta, on the rush as always.

“ _An honest man, close-buttoned to the chin,_

_Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.”_

\- William Cowpers

 

 

 

“He never wears that red shirt anymore.”

 

Chris glanced up from the book he was reading, looking at Ezra. Though they were sitting under the cover of the boardwalk, the morning sun filtered through the bullet holes, catching in Ezra's hair and burnishing it to a fine copper sheen. The sight was so distracting that it took him a few seconds to recall Ezra's words.

 

With effort, he looked away, following Ezra's gaze down the road and toward the livery, where he found Vin standing beside Tiny at the corral. Vin's jacket was draped over the top rail, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, the cuff of his pale undershirt contrasting with the deep blue of the shirt he currently wore.

 

It was in the same style as the red one Ezra mentioned, with gold buttons and a front placard in the style of a military uniform.

 

“Maybe someone spilled coffee on it,” he said, grinning at the jibe. He was rewarded for his wit as he expected, with a full glare from the man sitting beside him.

 

“As I have explained – repeatedly – it was purely an accident, and it would most certainly not have happened had someone not encouraged Mr. Dunne to demonstrate what transpired in the saloon last night - “

 

“I didn't ask for a demonstration,” Chris interrupted. “I simply asked him to tell me. You were the one who kept interrupting him.”

 

Ezra's eyes narrowed even more. “The boy's grammar is atrocious, and it is becoming decidedly worse – if such a thing were possible. I am merely trying to help him.”

 

Chris shrugged, grinning again. “It might be atrocious, but it's less dangerous than making him feel like he has to show instead of tell. Cheaper, too – you're paying for having my shirt washed.” Ezra arched an eyebrow. Before he could speak, Chris continued, “You can add it to your batch for the Chinese laundry.”

 

“That should certainly confuse Mr. Sing,” Ezra murmured. “I do hope he doesn't assume that it's mine.”

 

“I doubt it – black ain't your color,” Chris said, emphasizing the 'ain't just to see Ezra wince.

 

“More to the point,” Ezra shot back, “It's not my fabric. I hardly think the coffee could hurt it – though perhaps it might help, working to soften that coarse weave.” His expression softened then, and he turned once more to look down the road. “Do you think it's intentional?

 

Chris started to play dumb, to answer as if the question wasn't about Vin, but the look on Ezra's face, the softness, was so out of character that he was curious. “Why would it be intentional?” he asked. “Maybe he just lost it, or it got torn or ripped, or - “

 

“It's in the back of his wagon,” Ezra said quietly. “Carefully folded and set to one side, away from everything else.”

 

Chris frowned, his curiosity growing. He didn't have to ask, though, as Ezra continued.

 

“I noticed it yesterday, when I passed by the wagon on my way from Gloria's. It is hard to miss in the right light.” Ezra tilted his head to one side, watching Vin. “I wonder if it makes him think of her.”

 

Her. For a few seconds, Chris didn't understand. But then, he did. Charlotte, the woman Vin had run off with. The woman he had been willing to leave them for.

 

It was as if a breeze had blown through, chilling the air, and his mood. He looked to Vin, too, not surprised to see him bent down next to the fence, hammer in one hand, a nail in the other. Tiny had asked for help with some repairs and Vin had nodded his agreement. As he almost always did when someone in town needed work done.

 

Chris looked back to the book he was reading, but he didn't see the words. He was thinking about that trip, telling Vin he'd see him back in town and finding out a few hours later that Charlotte Richmond was gone, her husband sure that Vin had taken her.

 

Chris sure that she had gone with Vin and that Vin was running out on them.

 

“Long time ago,” he said, as much to himself as to Ezra. “Reckon he's forgotten her by now.”

 

There was creak of wood as Ezra shifted in his chair, and Chris felt the weight of his gaze.

 

“Have you?” The question was so quiet that Chris wasn't sure if it were his own thought or Ezra's. He sighed, closing the book and putting it in the pocket of his coat.

 

“It was rhetorical,” Ezra said, his tone light, as if they were discussing the weather. “You can't forget – either of them. And, of course, there are reasons that go far beyond what the situation with Mr. Tanner.”

 

“Damned right,” Chris muttered. There were many differences between his love for Sarah – and his hatred, now, for Ella Gaines – and what Vin had had with the Richmond woman. Many.

 

Ezra's chair creaked again as he sat back, putting his legs up on the railing. He seemed quite comfortable, and Chris' jaw clenched. The more relaxed Ezra appeared, the more antagonizing the discussion. Chris leaned forward, prepared to get up and end this conversation. Wasn't their business anyway, this gossip about Vin.

 

But as he started to stand, Ezra said, “You stopped wearing light colors, did you not? Buck has mentioned that in the wake of the tragedy, you ceased to wear light colors.”

 

Chris swallowed, the memory of a night, a fire – a different fire, one in which he had carefully, purposefully, burned the last of the clothes he had had with him in Mexico. Among them had been a white linen shirt, the cuffs embroidered with a fine blue thread. Sarah had made it for him for Christmas, a special gift. Chris' name had been entwined with Adam's in a tiny perfect stitching.

 

After that, anything in white or blue had made him think of his family, and he had shied away – still shied away from those colors.

 

He didn't answer the question, looking down the road toward Vin, though he wasn't seeing him, either. Ezra's voice went on, still easy, conversational.

 

“I know myself that in the wake of this last, horrid instance with that other woman, you have disdained “bankers' suits”, as you call them. I noticed recently that my own has been pushed to the far back of my closet, a position that I most assuredly did not make.”

 

An image flashed through his mind, that damned photo of them, Ella in black, him in the damned tuxedo she had wanted him to wear, the one she claimed was from her dead husband. 'Ella Gaines Larabee'. Like hell.

 

“It rather makes me wonder,” Ezra said, more quietly now, barely loud enough for Chris to hear him, “what you will give up when we part.”

 

Another image flashed through his mind: Ezra standing beside the bed, his shirt open, the weak light from the lamp casting more shadows than it vanished, so that the bandage around his chest looked dull and yellow, the dark stains on it more black than red. 'A mere scratch,' Ezra had said, though Nathan had thought different.

 

The shirt that had hung open around him was black, one of Chris' own, the closest one to hand when Nathan had finally finished up his treatment.

 

'When we part.' Casually, as if it were pre-ordained, an inevitable conclusion, that what they had – whatever it was – was bound to end.

 

The words finally reached his tongue, so bitter that he spat them out to be rid of them. “If you're so damned concerned about Vin's wardrobe, why don't you go ask him?”

 

He wasn't aware of walking way, more focused on trying to stop the images that rolled through his mind, fires and gun fights and Nathan's grim tones as he asked for this or that and blood dripped from his hands.

 

*&*&*&*&*&*&

 

Ezra retired early. He had splurged on dinner, going to the restaurant in the hotel, mostly to avoid seeing Chris.

 

Not that he had seen Chris all day, but then, that was usual even on days that didn't start off with him stomping away cursing.

 

He had thought he needed a nice meal and a quiet atmosphere, but the steak had been overcooked, the wine just on the edge of vinegar, and the peach pie stale. On top of it all, Josiah had chosen tonight to splurge as well, and had joined him, forcing him to make conversation in self defense – though he did often let Josiah run on, as it gave him an opportunity to think.

 

He hadn't intended for this morning's conversation to get out of hand – and it most certainly had. He knew better than to open up any discussion of Chris' past. He knew better than to stir up memories of Chris' women.

 

And to be honest, he knew better than to discuss Vin. Chris' affection for Vin was something that Ezra tried to ignore – Vin was, after all, not like Ezra and Chris. He had proven that with Charlotte Richmond.

 

But then, Ezra himself had given into the temptation of women a few times in his life, special women who he had hoped, at the time, might distract him from his 'proclivities', as Maude called it.

 

And Chris – well, his attractions were well known by all, and in the case of at least one of them, suffered by all. The Gaines woman was still out there, somewhere, and at least once a month, Chris had a brooding period about her, one that sent him to his cabin, away from everyone.

 

So yes, it was possible that Vin was like them, and it was more possible that in the end, Chris would tire of Ezra as Ezra had tired of the few women he had known intimately over the years.

 

It was those thoughts that had distracted him through the short time after dinner when he had sat in the saloon, thinking to create a game of cards. But it was a slow night, and the games of solitaire he played only gave him more time to chastise himself for the myriad ways in which he had erred this morning in the conversation with Chris.

 

And Chris himself was conspicuously absent this evening, not even putting in an appearance to sit with Vin at the shadows of the corner of the bar. Perhaps the discussion this morning had driven Chris to his 'ranch', to brood about the Gaines woman. It was almost time for that, anyway.

 

So here Ezra was, pulling off his coat and vest, hanging them carefully in the closet – where he noticed that once again, his good suit was pushed to the back. Chris had been here last night, and he had hung up their clothes. As Ezra had taught him.

 

Bastard. Goddamn him.

 

The anger hit him, deep and low. Damn Chris for his loyalty to Vin – was it attraction? Desire? Damn him for his preference for women – dangerous, deadly women who even now still haunted him, women who could still draw an intensity of emotion from him that Ezra couldn't match. Damn him for ignoring – or hell, not even understanding the whole point of the conversation – the argument this morning.

-

Damn him for not even hearing Ezra's fear of losing him. Damn him for not even caring enough to -

 

The knock was soft, a gentle tap against the door that startled Ezra.

 

He stepped back from the closet, unconsciously smoothing the nap on the velvet jacket that he had just hung up – and had just gripped so hard that the imprints of his fingers were clear, shiny and light against the darker color of the thick cloth.

 

“Yes?” he called, closing the closet door and putting his hand on his revolver. The trick rig was ready as well, the metal of it warm through the cloth of his linen shirt.

 

“Ezra.” The voice was low and husky, so quiet that he didn't hear it so much as feel it as it coiled through his belly and down into his groin. Some part of him flared in anger, recalling the embarrassment and rejection of the morning.

 

But a larger part, a part that he tried to deny, was giddy in the overwhelming rush of relief and desire. Now he damned himself, knowing that he should turn Chris away, knowing that, as he had implied this morning, their relationship – or whatever the hell it was – was destined to end. Chris Larabee was not invested emotionally in what they had – whatever it was ('proclivities'). He was more concerned about Vin or about finding this damned Gaines woman, about righting the injustices in his world. What ever they had - whatever they were doing – it was merely a diversion for him, a way to stay safe from women and all the pain they could cause.

 

So why was his hand on the doorknob of his door, why was he even considering opening it?

 

“Ezra. I . . . what I said this morning. . . “

 

The words were so soft that Ezra wasn't sure he had actually heard them. He could well have made them up in his own head.

 

He could well have willed them to be.

 

The anger rose again, but this time at himself. He knew better. He knew he wasn't worthy of Chris Larabee, of any of the loyalty these men had shown.

 

“Ezra, open the damned door,” Chris said, his voice still low but sharper now. Unmistakeable. “I ain't gonna stand here and talk to a piece of wood when I know you're in there.”

 

Ezra almost balked. He was the one who was angry – and he had a right to be angry. But there was something here, too, something that he didn't get to experience often. Chris was standing outside his door and from the sound of it, it was possible that he was trying to apologize.

 

Not that Chris Larabee would ever do that.

 

Would he?

 

“Ezra -” Chris started once more, but he shut up as Ezra turned the key in the lock and then the doorknob, drawing it open.

 

“Mr. Larabee,” Ezra smiled. “Whatever brings you calling at such an hour?”

 

Chris glanced around, to make sure no one was in the hallway behind him, before saying, “Can I come in or are we gonna do this in the doorway?”

 

Ezra shrugged. “Do what, exactly?”

 

Chris stared at him, his eyes narrow and his lips pulled tight. After a time, he took a deep breath, straightened, and started to turn away. Ezra knew he had pushed too far – or just far enough, if he were quick.

 

“I was just getting ready to pour myself a night cap,” he said. “Shall I pour one for you, as well?” he stepped back and away from the door, leaving it open. At first he heard nothing behind him, and as he walked to the dresser where he kept a few bottles of various things, he wondered if he had, indeed, pushed too far. But as he picked up a glass and the bottle of whiskey that he kept intentionally for Chris, he was relieved to hear the thunk of boot heels on the wooden floor followed immediately by the accompanying chime of Chris' spurs.

 

“I trust you had a good day?” He poured a drink for Chris and turned, extending it out to him, then waiting as Chris closed the door, took off his hat, and placed it on the table just inside the door, beside Ezra's own. It was a little thing, not a thought so much as a habit, and it gave Ezra a strange sensation in the pit of his belly.

 

As Chris took the glass, his finger tips brushed Ezra's and that, too, added to the tingle. “Had better,” Chris said. “Don't like starting my day pissed off.”

 

Ezra picked up the bottle of brandy he kept for himself, pouring a healthy dose for himself. “To a better day tomorrow,” he said, holding his drink out toward Chris.

 

Chris hesitated, then he touched his glass to Ezra's and drank. It was then that Ezra noticed he held something in his other hand. A piece of black cloth.

 

The damned shirt.

 

Ezra's mood soured. So that was what this was about. Chris was going to make him pay to have the damned shirt cleaned. He looked at it, then at Chris himself. The man had changed shirts, the black and white stripes noticeably different from this morning's black. He had also, Ezra noticed in passing, taken a bath and combed his hair – no, not just combed it, but had it trimmed up. And he had shaved at the same time, which meant he had probably gone to the barber.

 

“So that is why you have come?” he asked, ignoring the smell of Chris' aftershave, a smell that he associated with his pillow. “To remind me of my debt to you?”

 

Chris looked down at the cloth in his hand then back up to Ezra. He grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light of the room. “That what you think? That I'm that cheap?”

 

Cheap. It wasn't a word he had ever considered when it came to Chris. Frugal, perhaps – but no, that wasn't quite right either. Chris didn't spend lavishly, but he bought quality.

 

As if to prove the point, Chris lifted the dark cloth and tossed it toward Ezra. “Ain't the shirt I was wearing this morning. I already sent that one over to Mr. Sing. Figured he'd have better luck getting the stain out before it stayed in too long.”

 

Ezra caught the cloth, aware at first touch that it was finer weave of cloth than most of the ones that Chris wore. In fact, it was soft, so soft that if he hadn't known better, he would have thought it silk.

 

But he knew better – this was Chris Larabee. Chris Larabee didn't own silk.

 

His fingers, though, suggested otherwise.

 

Ezra hadn't intended to look down, to assess this cloth in his hand. But he knew he had never felt it before, certainly not taken it off of Chris. Certainly not draped it over the foot board of his bed – because this? This would never have touched the floor.

 

“I bought this a while back, found it at Mr. Sing's, too,” Chris said, his voice quiet. Not soft, though it was, but this was a different sound. A quiet that was different from usual, different, in fact, from any other time Ezra could remember.

 

'A while back.' Not today, then, not when he had taken the shirt, but earlier. Something he had bought but not yet worn.

 

“I had it tucked away – not sure when would be a good time.” His voice was oddly cautious, as if he were unsure, and Ezra looked up.

 

Chris met his eyes. There was something there, an uncertainty that Ezra had never seen before. But there was something else, a softness, and intimacy that seemed an invitation.

 

Chris swallowed and looked at the glass in his hand. He seemed as if he would take another sip but instead, he took a deep breath and looked back at Ezra. “I been thinking for a while that you would appreciate that shirt – well, not for you to wear. Black ain't your color.”

 

Ezra blinked, understanding the words but understanding that there was more here, more that Chris was sharing. He wasn't quite sure what it all meant, but it was something important.

 

Chris did take a swallow of his drink now, closing his eyes as he did so. It gave Ezra a few seconds to think. To think about what would bring Chris to do this. To think about what it meant that Chris was sharing this with him.

 

To think about all the ways in which his instincts were so often wrong.

 

It was part of why Chris' next words took a while to permeate his mind.

 

“It took me a while to understand what you were asking today. I know you were thinking about Vin – hell, it's still close enough that I try not to. In that whole thing with Ella, I – well, I said some things to him that weren't about her, not really. They were because I was angry about him leaving. About the thought that he might leave without saying goodbye, just up and go.”

 

This wasn't what Ezra had expected to hear and for a few seconds, the jealousy spiraled in his belly like an alcohol burn.

 

But before it could explode upward, gathering momentum, Chris went on. “I know why Vin did what he did with Charlotte – well, I think I do. I also know that he figured out pretty quick that it was a mistake. You're right, though, and I guess that was what I reacted to this morning: Vin did care for her and no matter the reasons why it would never have worked, he got hurt, and I don't like to think on that, either. He's my friend and he's had enough hurt in his life and I guess I'm so glad he figured out that she was wrong for him, that I don't want to think on what will happen when he finds someone who will take him away.”

 

He took a quick sip of his drink, again, then as he swallowed, he glanced down to the shirt in Ezra's hand.

 

“But I think you know all that. You know me that well, and I think you were asking something else – scared of something else.” He tilted his head to one side, and in the lamplight, his hair seemed to brighten, turning to a burnished gold. “You asked me what I would give up if something went bad with us – no, hell, no, that ain't the way you phrased it. But that's at the heart of it, the idea that what we have ain't gonna last. That pissed me off, too. Mostly, I guess, because I thought you were jealous of Vin.”

 

It stood there between them, a statement that Ezra knew was true. But also, a statement that had to be assessed. One that had to be confronted. Because there was something, something big, on the other side of it. Something wound up in the soft, fine fabric of this shirt.

 

He looked away from Chris, unable to think with the gold in his hair, the glitter of it in his eyes. He stalled by sipping his own drink, confronting his own qualms about honesty and the price one paid when giving away one's thoughts.

 

But even as the liquor slid down his throat, he knew that Chris knew the answer already, that Chris knew him better than anyone else. Perhaps even better than he knew himself.

 

“Yes,” he said softly, setting the glass down and taking the cloth in both hands. He didn't explain, wasn't even sure that he could.

 

Not that he needed to. Chris nodded, his smile soft. “He's my friend, Ezra. Close to me as Buck. But he ain't the one I sneak up the stairs to see. He ain't the one I spent the day thinking on. And he ain't the one I was thinking of when I bought this damned expensive shirt.” He raised a hand and waved it, indicating the shirt.

 

Ezra frowned, looking at the shirt. “For me? But you just said -”

 

“You asked me what I'd give up if I lost you,” Chris said, the words quiet. “I gave up wearing light colors with Sarah. I never really thought about it, but that might be right.” He stepped forward,

dropping one hand on the cloth that Ezra held, running his fingers over it until he found Ezra's hand. “But if something happened with us, I reckon I'd give up wearing this.”

 

Ezra looked down at where their hands met, the fine cloth between them. And he understood. This wasn't a shirt Chris would ever wear in public. It wasn't a shirt he would wear in front of his friends.

 

It was something only for Ezra. But there was more to it, too. He had held on to it for a while, not brought it up here yet. Because it was more than just sex – and it was sex, no doubt about that. If he wasn't going to wear it in public, and it was as fine as anything Ezra wore (even in public), then there was little doubt about the intent of it.

 

But the hesitation meant that it was … more.

 

He frowned, not quite able to bring the idea forth.

 

Chris sighed, but his tone was patient – or as patient as Chris Larabee ever was. “I ain't bought nothing special for nobody since – well, you know when. I ain't had no reason to. And the day I walked into Mr. Sing's and realized I was thinking of doing it again – well, it scared me. Scared me good. Then you got shot - “

 

“A minor wound, already healed,” Ezra said, quickly, without thought; they had had this conversation so many times…

 

So many times. Because Chris cared. Ezra had reconciled himself to that. Chris cared, as he did for Vin, and Buck, and the others. But . . .

 

“Yeah, I've seen for myself,” Chris said, smiling. “Hope to see again, too.” The smile slipped away, though, as he went on. “Thing is, I don't want to ever see another one. And I reckon that was what I was thinking most about when you said what you said this morning. I don't want to think about there being a time when you're not here. For whatever reason.”

 

His fingers tightened on Ezra's, the cloth cool between them.

 

Ezra swallowed, looking down once more at their hands. “As it happens,” he said – or tried to. He had to clear his throat for some reason, before he could go on. “I prefer not to think on that as well. In fact, I should prefer to see what this fine garment looks like on you. It would be quite a shame for Mr. Sing's handiwork to go to waste.”

 

He looked back up, catching a different glitter in those bright green eyes. One he knew well, and one he was always relieved to see.

 

Chris stepped back, letting go of Ezra's hand. The fabric grew cooler immediately, but Ezra felt a different sort of heat as Chris shrugged out of his coat and moved over to hang it in the closet. It was another habit, one that was even more pleasing than the hat sitting next to his own.

 

Ezra watched, appreciatively, finishing his drink, as Chris casually shed his gun belt (to sit on the beside table), his boots (between the table and the bed) and the his shirt. It was as he almost dropped the shirt onto the floor that Ezra finally broke the easy silence between them. “I should hang that up – if it were me,” he said, grinning.

 

Chris glanced to him and grinned, too. “That an order?”

 

Ezra shrugged, setting his glass on the side table and walking over to Chris. “Let me,” he said, taking the striped shirt from Chris' hand and replacing it with the silk one.

 

He took his time, letting himself imagine what he would see when he turned around. The striped shirt was warm and smelled of soap and aftershave and the unique musk that was Chris. It was a smell that Ezra would cling to in the morning, burrowing into the sheets still warm from Chris' body, pressing his face into the pillow.

 

When he finally turned back, the sight before him was far better than his imaginings. The fine cloth shimmered in the dim light, as if catching the reflection from Chris' hair, from his eyes, from his skin. It was cool to the touch, sensual, not a contrast to the man himself, but a complement.

 

And while the silk itself was cool, the fire it started built brighter and hotter, a lightning fire that exploded into a raging conflagration.

 

It was late the next morning when he finally dragged himself from the burrow of sheets and the lingering scent on the pillow. In a rare event, Chris sat in the worn wing-back chair in the corner, dressed for the most part, though his shirt was not yet buttoned and his gun belt was on the table with their hats. He was staring out the window, but there was the hint of a smile on his face and no wrinkles in his brow.

 

He looked young, and for an instant, Ezra wondered if he were seeing some sort of apparition. The sun was high in the sky, after all, well past the time when Chris usually vacated – hell, well past the time he stayed when he stayed late.

 

Ezra blinked, slowly, but when he opened his eyes, Chris was still there. Only now, Chris was looking at him. “Was beginning to wonder if you'd suffocated in there,” he said, the smile materializing on his face.

 

Ezra smiled back, sitting up in the bed. “Appreciating the memories of last night,” he said, surprising himself with his honesty. “Though I admit, finding you here is even nicer. You should have wakened me.”

 

Chris tilted his head to one side, looking at Ezra. The smile faded, but he didn't look unhappy. If anything, he looked content. After a time, he said, “Been a long time since I watched someone sleep.”

 

He wasn't sure why he blushed, and it had been so long since he had done so that it took him a few seconds to recognize the sensation, the slow burn spreading up his neck to his cheeks.

 

Chris smiled again, then he leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knees. “Reckon I should get out of here before it gets too busy. But I figure I should ask first what you want me to do with this?” He held up the black shirt. In the bright light of the late morning sun, the shirt was almost diaphanous. Ezra almost thought it was moving, as if the rays of the sun were strong enough to cause it to wave.

 

“What do I want you to do with it?” Ezra asked, not certain what Chris meant.

 

Chris swallowed, looking at the shirt in his hand. Then he lowered back to his lap, where his fingers proceeded to kneed it, compressing it into a small ball.

 

Before he was aware of what he was doing, Ezra pushed back the bedclothes and moved across the floor, the fine desert grit biting into his bare feet. “What are you doing?” he demanded as he moved. “You'll damage it – give me that!”

 

He didn't jerk it from Chris' hand – that would have done just as much damage – but he did bat Chris' hand away from it, picking it up and shaking it out, looking for rents or tears or pulled threads. “What are you thinking?” he asked, though he wasn't really thinking about what he was saying. “If you ruin this - “

 

“I thought you didn't care,” Chris said mildly, sitting back. But he was smiling again now.

 

Ezra looked at him long enough to glare. “Why ever in the world – after last night, I should hope – have you no idea - “ His mouth ceased to form words as his mind was overwhelmed with the very idea of it. Finally, he settled on, “You, sir, are sadly ill informed.”

 

He walked over to the closet, flipping through the clothes and hangers until he found an empty hanger wrapped in velvet. Carefully he draped the shirt over it, drawing the shoulders into place then buttoning the collar closed. Carefully, he hung it on the rack, making sure that it was pressed between any of the other garments.

 

“You sure that's where you want it?” Chris asked, his voice mild.

 

Ezra glanced at him. “Are you planning to wear it anywhere other than here?” he asked. It wasn't until the words left his mouth that he considered the implications of the question.

 

Considered the possible answers and how he might not wish to hear them.

 

But Chris shook his head. “I thought I made that clear last night.”

 

It was then, in a moment of clarity perhaps inspired by the sunlight, the Ezra understood: Chris had been waiting to see if Ezra would accept what Chris had said last night. That he had been afraid that Ezra hadn't understood the import of it. Or that he hadn't felt the same way.

 

Ezra smiled, no longer feeling the grit under his feet. “Just making certain that I understood.”

 

Chris got to his feet then, stretching a little before taking a step toward the bedside table and picking up his gun belt. “See you downstairs for lunch?” he asked, bucking the belt onto his slender waist.

 

Ezra glanced down, aware for the first time that he was naked. “In a while,” he answered, distractedly looking for his underwear.

 

Chris grinned. “Yeah, as much as I appreciate the view, I reckon it could get you into trouble.” He picked up his hat and his coat, which he had already taken from the closet, and stood in front of the door. “Take care of my shirt.”

 

Ezra glanced to him as he bent down, pulling his underwear from beneath the bed. “Of course,” he said with a smile. “As if it were my own.”

 

Chris nodded. “In a manner of speaking, it is,” he answered. Then he turned the key in the knob and eased the door open, looking out for a few seconds before slipping through and out into the hall.

 

 


End file.
